Cath Staincliffe - Blink of an Eye

‘Of course,’ said Suzanne.

Naomi is dark-haired, like Phil and me. She’s a taller, darker version of Suzanne. Apart from that, the girls have the same dark blue eyes, pointed chin, Phil’s long slim nose. Naomi was wearing a short-sleeved blue dress in a waffle cotton, the dye faded and the hem a raw fringe, part of the design.

She straightened up. ‘Glasses?’ she said, hoisting the bottle up.

‘Kitchen,’ said Suzanne. ‘Ask Jonty.’

‘Splashing out?’ Phil remarked. ‘The real McCoy.’ It wasn’t cava.

‘Celebrating.’ Merriment danced in Naomi’s eyes. ‘Alex has got a job!’

We all jumped in with congratulations.

Alex grinned. He’s a lovely-looking boy: pale skin, dark hair and green eyes.

‘Training contract with a legal firm in town,’ he said.

Even better. I knew he had looked far and wide, but the pair of them wanted to stay in Manchester if possible, dreading a move somewhere out in the sticks or to some soulless small town where there was nothing going on.

‘So you’ll be getting a place together at last?’ Phil teased. ‘Shall I book a van?’

‘Give us a chance, Dad,’ Naomi said, punching her father on the shoulder.

Alex took the bottle from Naomi, raised it and caught Jonty’s attention. Jonty disappeared inside and came back moments later with a tray of glasses. Alex popped the champagne and filled the glasses and Naomi handed them round. I caught Phil’s eye and winked. He winked back.

‘New job!’ Naomi led the toast.

The champagne was fresh and lemony, tingly on my tongue.

We sat and chatted. Suzanne wanted to know about our travel plans. We’d been saving up. I was about to book leave, some of it unpaid. It wasn’t a good time to be doing it really, as there were cuts on the way (I’m a social worker on the emergency duty team). But we had finally paid off our mortgage after twenty-five years, and that made it financially doable. I felt that if we didn’t get away and do some travelling soon, we never would, and I didn’t want to live with that regret.

We had fantasized for ages about seeing more of the world; we’d never been beyond Europe. The idea was that we would take off for two months. If the worst came to the worst and I was made redundant or Phil’s shop went under, then we could always sell the house and rent somewhere. While Phil explained which cities he wanted to visit in the States (New Orleans, Chicago, Memphis, Detroit, San Francisco – music Meccas every one), I watched a toddler diligently placing pieces of gravel in a plastic cup. Someone was blowing bubbles, the light catching the oily rainbow colours as they drifted about the garden.

We stayed another half-hour or so and then left them to it. Phil had a gig that evening at a pub. He played lead guitar. A dream that had turned into a hobby somewhere along the way. They do a mix of rock and blues. He looks the part, an ageing rocker, greying hair down to his shoulders, jeans and T-shirt his uniform. No need for the ubiquitous leather jacket on that warm day. He was growing thicker round the waist but I still fancied the pants off him. And thought there might be a chance to prove it if we got home before too long.

I kissed Ollie goodbye, hugged Suzanne, found Naomi and Alex and congratulated them again. He was beaming and she clapped her hands. ‘I can’t believe it! Now I need some of his luck for my interview.’

‘Fingers crossed.’

At the car, Phil kissed me, long and slow. Just the way I like it.

Naomi

Everyone’s congratulating Alex. Suzanne’s waiting for Jonty to bring glasses, and she flashes this look my way. A spark of irritation in her eyes, her lips tight. My stomach sinks for a moment. Maybe I’m overreacting? Is she pissed off with Jonty for not being quicker with the glasses? I wait to see if she’ll roll her eyes or pull a face to let me in on the joke. But she doesn’t. She turns away and says something to Mum.

Perhaps it’s not me she’s irritated with. She could just be tired with having Ollie, or she’s got a headache or something and the look wasn’t directed at me. But if it was, what have I done wrong now? Is it because we brought champagne? Or made a thing out of Alex’s job offer? Doesn’t that just make the barbecue even more of an event? It’s not like we’re taking anything away from it.

The glasses arrive, and Alex unscrews the wire cap and pops the champagne. It froths out of the bottle and we fill the glasses and I hand them round then make a toast. I drink most of my glass; it’s so fizzy that it’s hard to swallow fast and my throat burns.

I could just ignore her. But I don’t want to be stuck with this horrible sour feeling inside. So I walk around and sit next to her.

‘He really is gorgeous,’ I say, looking at Ollie. I mean it. He’s so perfect and other-worldly. His eyes are very, very dark, and his head is pointed at the back. He’s delicate and really pretty. ‘How are you?’ I say.

‘Fine,’ she says, though it sounds brittle. But then she says, ‘It’s good news about Alex.’

So maybe I am wrong? ‘Can’t believe it,’ I say, ‘and I’ve got an interview for a teaching assistant job.’

‘Right.’ Ollie’s gone to sleep and she starts to look around as though she needs to get away. The dutiful hostess.

‘Probably be a lot of competition,’ I add.

‘God, yes,’ she says. ‘Anyone can apply, can’t they? For that sort of thing?’

It’s a put-down. A typical Suzanne snub. It’s hard to tell if she’s even aware she’s doing it.

‘Thanks for the support,’ I say, fed up now.

She raises her eyebrows. ‘You’ve got to face facts, Naomi. It’s tough out there.’

‘I know,’ I snap at her. ‘I’m the one sending off twenty application forms a week.’ Why do I let her wind me up like this?

‘Top-up?’ Alex is there holding the champagne out to Suzanne.

‘I can’t.’ She nods at Ollie. ‘Feeding. We’ve got some in the chiller, actually. We were saving it for a bit later on when everyone’s here.’

Now I get it. We’ve stolen her thunder. But I make myself sound bright. ‘Great! This is nearly finished anyway. I bet yours is a good vintage, isn’t it?’ I say, though I’m not sure if champagne has vintages in the same way wine does. ‘Save the best for later, eh?’

More guests arrive and she goes to greet them. Alex can tell things have been a bit tense. ‘You okay?’ He rubs my back between my shoulder blades, where I can feel the stiffness.

‘Families,’ I smile.

Why can’t I just ignore her? What pisses me off is that I let it get to me. I wish there was a magic formula, something I could just switch on so I’d be immune to her sarky comments or her needling at me. Why do I care what she thinks? It’s not like I want to be her or anything. I don’t want her life; I’m not bothered about status and having loads of money. She never puts a foot wrong, but is she happy? She spends all her time watching eagle-eyed for other people (especially me) to make mistakes. I’m twenty-five and in a steady relationship and I’ve got a degree, and still she pushes all my buttons and I’ve not found a way yet to brush it off. Distance, absence helps. If I don’t see her much. But put us together, and like some species of animal – rabbits or hamsters or something – if we have to share a cage, one of us gets savaged.

Any time I try talking to her directly, being really open about it, saying, ‘Why are you so bitchy to me?’ or ‘Why do you always have to be so negative?’ she either denies it or says she’s simply being honest.

Alex has a job, I tell myself, I’ve got an interview for a post I actually like the sound of, even if the money’s not great, and we will soon have a place of our own. No way is my snotty sister going to spoil it. Fuck her, I am going to celebrate.